Whole Fish

Gulf Seafood + Southern Food

9.11.2009

It All Started with a Tweet:
Southbound Food on 1560 AM The Game -Kick Ass Radio That Tastes Great



I had only been on Twitter about a month when I received a DM (that’s Twitter-speak for a Direct Message) from a guy named Lance Zierlein. (He wanted to do a Stage in the kitchen at REEF (a Stage is when you spend time –unpaid -- in another chef’s kitchen to learn as much as you can about different cooking styles and operations). I’m a big believer in the Stage method of learning and I still do it whenever I get the chance.




At the time, it didn’t click who this guy was but once we started talking, I caught on. Lance, along with his co-host John Granato, has the most popular AM drive- time sports talk show in Houston on 1560 AM, a locally-owned and operated station. (Lance is also a very popular blogger with The Z Report, for the Houston Chronicle. I didn’t even know that independently-owned stations existed in the present day and age of the monster conglomerates. After Lance made it through a busy Friday night service, we set a date for me to come on his show as a judge for the “Late Night Drunken Munchie Throwdown.” My stomach still hasn’t forgiven me for their listener, P.D., who threw down the Ramen, Wolf Chili, Ro-tel, Hot Dog, Cheese, Red Onion and Black Olive gut bomb we experienced. It was the best time I’ve ever had on a radio show -- not a whole lot of structure but plenty of bullshit, right up my alley. Soon after the show aired, comments started streaming in and we both realized that there might be an audience for a relaxed, fun and informative food talk show. And Southbound Food was born.












I feel very fortunate to be a part of such a Bad Ass radio station, and I can’t say enough about the whole 1560 AM The Game crew; they have THE setup that kind of reminds me of the early days of Sports Center (with Keith Olbermann and Dan Patrick) when the talent was so damn strong and funny. I recently attended the station’s Mug Awards (kind of like the ESPY awards) where they had real storm troopers, Boba Fett and Darth Vader walking around, Lance did his Rapping Dad routine and Ken Hoffman actually boxed a girl. I laughed out loud the entire time.










The whole vibe of the station is relaxed and Southbound Food is shaping up to be a freak show hybrid of Julia Child and Howard Stern, serving up food and drink with a hefty side of bullshit. Hosted by me and Lance, along with Jenny Wang (from www.imneverfull.com and Houston Chowhounds) and Danny Vara and Franky “The Bull” Bullington (from 1560 The Game), Southbound Food is turning out to be a raucously funny, no-holds-barred roller coaster ride where we cover current events in the Houston food scene, discuss what foodies are talking about (like Top Chef episodes) and bring in leading chefs and restaurateurs as guests (and you should hear what’s being said when we’re NOT talking about food!).


Unlike other talk shows out there, this one’s got a life of its own, walking a straight subject line one minute and careening off into the unbelievable-but-true stories of our lives on the front lines of the cooking world the next.

So far, our guest list has been great with the likes of: Jonathan Jones (Executive Chef, Beaver’s), Randy Evans (former chef from Brennan’s and currently with Haven), Michael Housewright (Block 7 Wine Company), superstar winemaker Heidi Barrett of La Sirena Wines, Gail Simmons from Top Chef, Mike Dei Maggi, Cody Vasek, Robert Hall III, Chris Shepard, and seafood expert Mark Musatto from Airline seafood.


Check out this week’s show a day early on 1560 AM’s podcast site with special guests Tony Vallone, The Fearless Critic Robin Goldstein and featuring a special parody segment where we deliver a healthy right cross to the competition.

Follow Southbound Food on Twitter @SouthboundFood

comments (4)

8.01.2009

The Return of the White Van:
Fresh Gulf Shrimp











If you have ever read this blog, or you and I have had drinks that spilled into a long night of me lamenting my long lost youth, then you’ve heard me talk about the white van with S H R I M P written on the side that used to crawl through my old neighborhood, honking every fifth or sixth house. Well, folks, my chariot has returned.




Gulf White Shrimp, (Penaeus Setiferus) is one of the three main commercial species of trawled shrimp in the Gulf of Mexico. If you’ve ever had fresh, never frozen, head-on shrimp then you know the difference from the normal shrimp routine. These are soft, meaty, toothy (but not rubbery), like a small steak from the sea. It’s like the difference between concentrate OJ vs. freshly-squeezed: immediate, obvious, worlds apart.





Fresh White Shrimp

White shrimp spawn in the Gulf with females releasing about 100,000 – 1,000,000 eggs that hatch with in 24 hours. They are then carried shoreward by the Gulf’s wind and currents and, in that time, they are a whopping quarter-inch long. They migrate into the inner bays, creeks and marshes, necessary protection for their survival and growth. An omnivorous species, they have an incredibly rapid growth rate of .04 to .09 inches per day. When they reach about 3-5 inches, they move back out into the bays and Gulf to start the process all over again. Commercially, Gulf shrimp are considered an annual crop with a lifespan of less than a year.






There is a dark underbelly to these soft, white beauties, though. I know that. And an eternal struggle rages within my mind and heart. I often feel like a walking dichotomy, a contradiction of morality, views and beliefs. And shrimp are the perfect example of what tears me in two.

Shrimping is the largest commercial fishery in Texas, yielding almost 236 million pounds per year. Shrimp cost me around $6.50/pound for the 16-20's (a sizing reference, 16-20 shrimp in a pound) – so you do the math. Trawling for shrimp, like gillnets, hoopnets, longlining or fishing with dynamite, is an indiscriminate killer. Those that fall within its clinches don’t have much of a chance, becoming by-catch. By some estimates, shrimping in the Gulf affects 450 groups of organisms. An average haul consists of 67% finfish, 16% shrimp and 17% invertebrates. That equates to 4-8 pounds of fish that are killed to catch one pound of shrimp. If this was the Majors, the Shrimper’s would be getting bounced to the bush league, only batting .170. Most of this by-catch gets dumped back over the side; this I know first-hand because many fishermen take advantage of this buffet/chum line by drift fishing off the back of culling shrimp boats. The larger pelagic species also benefit, especially the King of the Gulf, the Dolphin. Unfortunately, there are no viable outlets for this by-catch, although both fertilizer and food seem to be logical choices.

Since 1995, the State of Texas has implemented an aggressive license buy-back program and (since January of this year) has bought back 1,978 licenses in an effort to control the ill effects of shrimping and bring it to a more manageable state. The mandatory use of TEDs (Turtle Exclusion Devices) and BRDs (Bycatch Reduction Devices) on trawlers has proven to work when used correctly. I think that those improvements, along with a focus on closures during growth periods to ensure spawning and eliminating bay and estuary shrimping, would ensure healthy stocks and a reduction in by-catch.

Now on to the food!

Recently, I bought about 25 Comals (cast iron Fajita platters) from this dude who was going out of business; ever since, I’ve been looking for an excuse to use them (#howadishisborn). Three weeks ago, I was drifting a gas well offshore, thinking back to my high school summer days, working in the gas fields in South Texas (Goliad, Yorktown, Weesatche, Victoria). The gas would come out of the ground at such a high pressure that it would sometimes cause icicles to form on the well head, even in 100 degree heat. So it had to cycle through a heater in order to warm it up, causing it to condensate and transform it into liquid form. A gin-clear fuel. The plate with the Shrimp and Pink Sea Bream “Salad” is placed on the ripping hot Comal, we pour Dashi on the Comal and then cover it with a dome, causing the Dashi to evaporate and then rain back down on the salad.





Warm Shrimp and Pink Sea Bream Salad, Peppers, Plums and Dashi Condensate

comments (1)

7.14.2009

Chronicles of a Six-Foot-Four Texan
in Aspen: The Food & Wine Classic



So, here I am, wine drunk standing at the bottom of a mountain range in Colorado. As I spin around, the sun in my eyes, I bump into some dude, so close, I can tell what he had for supper. “Excuse me, Sir,” I slurred. Everything comes back into focus and I can see again: Holy Shit! It’s Jose (Made in Spain) Andres. Quickly, I right the ship for a proper introduction; he has already begun to embrace me and congratulate me on my Best New Chef Award. I try to recover but the wind’s been knocked out of me and the only thing I can muster is, “Man, I love your stuff, you’re the shit!” Stupid. Oh well, hopefully the language barrier will work in my favor.


Meeting Jose Andres

As I travel, dine, fish, read, watch, purchase, ingest and dream, I find that those truly awe-inspiring, spine-tingling and fresh moments become fewer and harder to come by. But that is what this entire trip was: new. Like Senior year spring break for grown-up foodies. It was just plain cool.


Dana Cowin toasting the Best New Chefs, Class of 2009

(Before I go any further, some of these pictures might seem as if I had my own personal photographer following me around. Well, actually, I did. Thanks to Courtney Caswell, my semi-pro photographer sister. She treated the trip as a job, took it seriously, and I couldn’t be more appreciative. Thanks, Court!)

Courtney Caswell -- Thanks, Sis

When I hit the tarmac in Aspen, it was clear what my favorite thing was going to be -- the weather: clean, crisp, refreshing, like an ice-cold glass of sun tea. Surrounded by those towering mountains makes even the largest seem small. The first night there was very low-key, dinner with friends and gallons of water. Before I left and when I got there, everyone was telling me, “Drink lots of water or you’ll catch the altitude sickness.” I learned quickly: overeating, being over-served and hangovers all can easily be dismissed with a little, “No, I’m fine. Think it might be a little altitude sickness.”

The next day, we hit it hard -- full schedules, full bellies and full glasses. The whole event is highly structured from 9 am until 9 pm; then at10 pm, all hell breaks loose. There were two Grand Tastings each day with seminars and cooking demonstrations in between. I caught Jose Andres’ demo, where he cooked 10 courses using only quality canned ingredients -- white asparagus, white beans, tuna. He was the most entertaining of them all. Then there are the “Industry” seminars; Danny Meyer and Joe Bastianich talking about marrying creativity with commerce; Mario Batali, Drew Nieporent and Paul Kahan speaking about fostering home-grown talent. These were the guys, the icons of my industry. I soaked it up and pined like a 13-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert. In the presence of greats like this, it’s impossible not to geek out.

photo by Allan Zepeda
Bill Floyd, Danny Meyer & Me

Another Grand Tasting and, before you know it, 10 pm rolls around. Private parties start popping up in private homes all around town, each sponsored by different big names and purveyors. The first of the night was Jose Andres (I know, sounds like I was stalking him), in a multi-level home in which each room had a different cooking and cocktail station. Next was Mario Batali, where he was giving away signed orange crocs to anyone interested (I lost out – finding a size 14 is always a problem). When I finally got a chance, I introduced myself to Mario, “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Bryan Caswell, from Houston, Texas.” (This was my standard introduction for the week, gotta represent!) He cocked his head, slicked back his hair and said, “Caswell, Caswell…Reef, right? Ya, man, I just read about you in Saveur. Dig that redfish thing.” Holy shit! Talk about being blown away.


Me & Mario

The next day, I’m back at the Grand Tasting, and I can feel it, I’m starting to hit my stride. It’s mid-day and Dana Cowin, Editor of Food & Wine Magazine, stops and asks me if I would be her video guinea pig. Well, don’t mind if I do. Next thing I know, I’m standing in line behind Tim Love, in between tents, waiting for my turn in front of the camera. Before I know it, I pop out four how-to spots: crispy skin fish; what makes a fish good for the grill; what makes a fish good for the sauté pan; and how to clean a soft-shell crab. All the while, Dana Cowin is standing next to me, out of camera range, coaching me along, giving me pointers. Wow! Super-cool.

My Coach, Dana Cowin

That night was the big publisher’s party on the mountain. We meet at the base, by the Little Nell, and ride the gondola to the top, where David Chang, Jacques Pepin and Mario Batali had just finished playing bacci ball. Outside, it was 40 degrees and the view was spectacular. Inside, the party was jumping -- insane cocktails and whole pig porchetta. The ride back down the mountain was remarkable. Being roped down, cloaked in darkness, with only the far-off lights of Aspen as our compass.


View from the Gondola

From Whole Pig to...


...Porchetta

Saturday night was our night to cook, so it was early to rise, and all of the Best New Chefs were banging it out in the kitchen for the dinner that night. Vinny and Jon (from Animal in L.A.) had lost their house-made Kimchi; when the box busted open in transit, and the folks at Fed-Ex smelled the sour waft, they figured it was rotten and trashed it. In the end, they ended up putting together a banging Pork Slider with the pork belly that had made the trip from L.A. in one piece.
a packed walk-in Vinny checking for salt

Paul (the Limey) Liebrandt from Corton in NYC was whipping up Uni (Sea Urchin) ice cream. Naomi Pomeroy from Beast in Portland -- the only girl of the group -- dropped the biggest cojones doing a charcuterie plate with Country Paté , Steak Tartare with quail egg toast and a Foie Gras Bon Bon. My two Southern brethren represented hardcore: Kelly English Iris from Memphis (Restaurant Iris) with Fried Boudin Balls and Linton Hopkins Eugene from Atlanta (Restaurant Eugene) was hitting it hard with Grilled Pimiento Cheese & Bacon Sandwiches. Christopher Kostow (my stud double) of Meadowood in Napa made a super-cool Roasted Corn Custard. Barry Madien of Hungry Mother in Cambridge put up a Smoked Trout Salad, Mark Fuller (Spring Hill in Seattle) made Columbia Sea Scallops and, rounding it out, Nate Appleman from A16 in San Francisco with Meatballs.

Check out Yum Sugar’s post for more details and pictures of the event, food and chefs.

Me, I kept it simple, with Reef’s signature Crab Cocktail shots. My secret weapon in the deal was my service staff, boy can that girl sell!

My Secret Weapon: K-Dog (aka Kennedy Caswell)

Another late night and, once again, I was over-served, damn that bartender. I mean, I was so tore up I actually thought I saw Tom Colicchio and Joe Bastianich downstairs jamming 80’s tunes.

For Real...

So I skipped Sunday morning and opened my eyes after lunch just in time to join my fellow chefs for a white water rafting trip on the Roaring Fork River (Thanks Blazing Adventures!)


Raft Full of Chefs....

New, fresh and different -- every bit of it -- and I have decided that I won’t miss another Food & Wine Classic any time soon. And I suggest the same for any of you who live to eat and drink. Let me know and I’ll meet you there next year.

More Photos:

On top of the mountain with Gail Simmons

First things first, I need a glass

Me and Ming Sai

Me and Reef's Sous Chef, Heather Deason

comments (9)

7.04.2009

Sunday Pay Dirt: Two Chefs Fishing




Luna & Caz

Last Sunday was a benchmark day for me and my three-man crew: James Cheramie, Dan Lantini (from Barstool Magazine) and Chef David Luna from Shade.


Lantini Working the Bow
Cheramie with Bull Red

Seas were 1 to 2 feet (see swell height ), blue water was in close and weed lines were forming just five miles off the beach head. In every direction you looked, the entire Gulf was alive, teeming with massive bait pods, Gulls and Terns pounding the water’s surface, thrashing Spanish Mackerel, bruiser Kingfish and Cobia!

Within five minutes of rolling up to the first rig, the anchor hadn’t even caught, and Dan was hollerin’ almost as loud as his Ambassador 7000 was screaming, “I’m on, baby!” It was that quick: four Kingfish in the boat before I could even wet a line. And that’s the way it was for about one and a half hours.



Luna with Kingfish

Then I noticed something: on the Southeast corner of the rig, a beautiful and wondrous sight -- nervous water. Large bait pods of Atlantic Bumper and Spanish Sardine huddled ever-so-close to the rig’s pylons, nervous as Tom Turkey in Dog Town.

Searching for Nervous Water

Keeping a close eye on it, I knew it was no lie, something had ‘em spooked. And then it happened…BAM! The surface erupted -- murder and mayhem, scales and hard tails flying in random directions. They scattered hard, then regrouped even tighter than the rush hour crowd on the 6 train. Then BAM!, again. Ooohh, son! Something big was methodically working the edges. This was no Mackerel, this big guy had shoulders and was throwing his weight around.

I was about to come out of my skin with anticipation. Repositioning the boat, I palmed that baby up to the edge of the ruckus. Dan chunked a frozen sardine on a float and, almost instantly, a massive shadow emerged from the rig pilings, rushing Dan’s bait but stopping inches short, turning up his nose at the frozen offering. Sure enough, it was a big-ass Cobia. As quick as I could, I snatched up my live bait rig, single hook and 80 pound mono leader (make no mistake, I might be big and a bit clumsy, but at moments like these, you sometimes only get one shot -- clarity is key and, baby, I’m a killer). I grabbed one of the live Spanish Sardine that I caught earlier jigging Sabiki and pitched it lightly, landing it just shy of Dan’s float. The Cobia charges the frantic Sardine, mouths it, spits it, circles, takes a dramatic pause, then hits it like a Tyson right cross, inhaling the bait and then taking off like a champagne cork. It was on! A rush of adrenaline blasted through my veins as this 40-plus pound monster manhandled me from port to starboard, making me doubt what I’ve come to believe: my knots, my drag, this crew, my religion. I started coaching Luna on his gaff technique, as if he grew up in Montana, spewing anxious, incoherent chatter that gets me a stern look from him and he finally says, “Dude, I got it.” Then, the giant hits the deck – pay dirt, baby! I really should give lessons.

This was the kind of day that sticks with you, like a Rueben at 2nd Ave Deli, weighing you down, swelling your thoughts of the next trip. And I’ve been obsessing ever since.

comments (1)

6.17.2009

Stealth Attack: Tripletail


Tripletail

West Matagorda has always been my fishing home base. One of the unique things about this bay is the large number of inshore gas platforms that offer great surface structure in an otherwise structure-less bay. Each rig reaches 12 feet down to the bottom of the bay and has become a reef of sorts; the large oyster shell pads that were built on the bottom to reinforce the platform, although man-made initially, have become alive over the years, creating an eco-chain of life out in the middle of the bay. They are also the reason why West Matagorda Bay is the Tripletail capital of Texas.

Tripletail (aka Black fish, Drift Fish or Buoy Fish [Lobotes surnamensis]) gets its name because the second dorsal and anal fins that extend far back on the body make it look like it has three tails. Although it is the only representative of the Lobotes family in the Gulf, many wrongly believe it is related to the Cichlid family because of its striking resemblance to the fresh water “Sac-a-lait” or Crappie. Tripletail is a surface fish that hangs out next to any kind of top water structure like platforms, sargassum, buoys and flotsam and jetsam. I caught this one last week off of a large piece of driftwood about one and half miles offshore of the Galveston jetty.


That's me with a Tripletail

A Tripletail will lie on its side, as if it was part of whatever floating material it’s hiding in; floating and moving with the current and waves like a large leaf, it even has the ability to change its color, like a chameleon. Years back, most people would steer clear of Tripletail as table fare thinking that these characteristics meant that the fish was sick. But it’s not sick, it’s smart: it lays in wait, ready to spring on its prey. When it attacks, it rushes, swimming on its side just like a flounder. But once it is hooked, it rights itself, turns that broad body and uses it against you. They are infamous as tough fighters that will frequently return to their former hiding spot, wrapping you around the seaweed or driftwood or whatever they were using as cover, and breaking your line. Tripletail feed mostly on menhaden, herring, anchovies and some crustaceans and live in subtropical and tropical coastal regions and estuaries from Massachusetts to Argentina. Rarely traveling in groups of more than three, they reach sexual maturity in just a year, making it an easily sustainable and recovery species. When large enough, they yield a wonderfully flaky white fish reminiscent of a giant speckled trout or weakfish. Although difficult to cook on the grill, they are excellent on the flat top or in a sauté pan.


Roasted Tripletail, Smoked Dr. Pepper Glaze, Buttered Bok Choy, Grapefruit Soda

comments (2)

6.12.2009

Heavyweight Battle: Young Ryan vs. The Black Tip Shark

The first day of Snapper season was a good one but the story of the day belonged to 13-year-old Ryan Smith.



Ryan with snapper and father Cameron

When we reached our Snapper quota, our focus shifted to Kings and Cobia. We had already landed a couple of Sand Sharks, a Bonnet Head and busted off on a pretty big Cobia when one of the reels began to scream. Ryan quickly grabbed the rod, flipped the bail and set the hook, but this big boy wasn’t turning. He kept peeling off line like a freight train and wouldn’t stop. Quickly, John cut us loose from the rig, I fired up the engines and tried to give young Ryan a bit of help. Ryan had been putting the screws to this hoss for about an hour before we even caught our first glimpse of him: it was a Black Tip Shark and Lord was he big -- between 6 and 7 feet, a true monster tipping the scales at about 150 pounds. A good match for Ryan, who weighs about the same.


Ryan Doing Battle

My friends, I must tell you, the fight that Ryan put on that fish was of epic, Hemingway proportions. This young man was truly a sight to see: his hands were cut up and burned, back aching and the butt of the rod had started to wear a hole in his gut, but he refused to give up. One and a half hours after our first hook up, we got the first pass on the monster and we all took our stations, ready to do battle. Once close enough, I went in hard for the gaff and, as soon as I made contact, the shark flipped and dove hard, leaving my brand new gaff in shambles, bending the metal shaft straight as an arrow. He made a second and third pass and, on the third, he thrashed, spun on the leader and cut the line. I wish you could have seen this one but unfortunately, when the bite is really on, everyone picks up the rod not the camera.

Two hours had passed and, as we watched that monster slowly swim off, I wanted to cry. I looked over at Ryan -- he didn’t say a word, just set the rod down, walked to the front of the boat, lay down and passed out, exhausted. It was an inspirational fight.

comments (2)

6.04.2009

Therapy: You Say Shrink, I Say Whaler



Like many Houstonians, I lost a lot to Ike but none as painful to me as the loss of my 22.5 foot Marshall. It wasn’t so much the boat itself as the peace of mind that going out gave me – it was a kind of therapy for me. That boat kept me on an even keel in my life on land.

In my family, we traditionally greet each Hurricane headed our way with a party, making the rounds to one or two houses in our neighborhood to have cocktails before the big storm hits. Last year, the hours before Ike were no different: drinks at the McLemore’s, then it was off to batten down the hatches at home and ride out the storm. I was rounding third with my Turkey & Soda when I glanced at the T.V. and saw the thick black smoke bellowing from a coastal building in Galveston. My heart sank to my stomach – is that the dry storage at the yacht basin? It sure did look like it.


And it was.

Heartbroken I was, she wasn’t even a year old. Earlier in the year, my brother Mike and I bought the boat together from Norman Marshall of Marshall Marine out of Port Lavaca, TX - they craft one hell of a boat.

Last summer, I fished more than I have in about 15 years. I enjoyed the hell out of that Marshall. But, thanks to Ike, I haven’t been out for almost 8 months - the longest I’ve ever gone without a trip.

I have been running boats since I was 8 years old. When I detach from the shoreline, it’s as if the cord that tethers me to everything else has been cut and I run only local channels: no calls, no emails, no texts and no more everyday problems. It’s just clear, pure thought - freedom for just a while, true serenity, a bit of peace. There’s nothing but me, the crew and our mission.

Here are a few pictures from last summer’s excursions:






Heaven on Water, 2008

It has taken me some time, but we have commissioned a new vessel, as yet to be named but definitely seaworthy: the legendary, unsinkable Boston Whaler.



Boston Whaler

At a solid 26 feet, she’s a big ‘un! My largest ever, technically a yacht (this is the classification for a boat that breaches 25 feet), this boat breaks new ground for me -- now the fabled Flower Gardens, Boomvang, Tequila rig and The Claypiles, all 50-100 miles offshore, are within my grasp (all of these are underwater goldmines for fishermen).

After two prior failed attempts due to small mechanical difficulties, Monday, June 1st marked the Whaler’s maiden voyage offshore, to the tune of about 25 miles. With my buddies -- Farrar, Cameron Smith and his 13-year-old son, Ryan -- we headed out for the opening day of Snapper season. If it’s Duck, Dove, Deer or Snapper, for a guy like me, opening day is always mandatory attendance.

This year, I’m pretty sure I’m going to need a lot of therapy.

Farrar & me, double hookup
Here's to many tight lines for my brother and I in the furture!!

comments (2)

Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)